“Only Mrs. Lumley, she wanted to know if you’d like your potatoes fried, or boiled in their jackets? She’s got some of each.”
“Boiled in their jackets,” said Tuppence promptly. “I love potatoes-” She stopped dead with her mouth open.
“What’s the matter, Tuppence? Have you seen a ghost?”
‘Tommy,” cried Tuppence. “Don’t you see? That’s it! The word, I mean. Potatoes! ‘My first you put on glowing coal’-that’s pot. ‘And into it you put my whole.’ ‘My second really is the first.’ that’s A, the first letter of the alphabet. ‘My third mislikes the wintry blast’-cold toes of course!”
“You’re right, Tuppence. Very clever of you. But I’m afraid we’ve wasted an awful lot of time over nothing. Potatoes don’t fit in at all with missing treasure. Half a sec., though. What did you read out just now, when we were going through the box? Something about a recipe for New Potatoes. I wonder whether there’s anything in that.”
He rummaged hastily through the pile of recipes.
“Here it is. ‘TO KEEP NEW POTATOES. Put the new potatoes into tins and bury them in the garden. Even in the middle of winter, they will taste as though freshly dug.’ ”
“We’ve got it,” screamed Tuppence. “That’s it. The treasure is in the garden, buried in a tin.”
“But I asked the gardener. He said he’d never buried anything.”
“Yes, I know, but that’s because people never really answer what you say, they answer what they think you mean. He knew he’d never buried anything out of the common. We’ll go to-morrow and ask him where he buried the potatoes.”
The following morning was Christmas Eve. By dint of inquiry they found the old gardener’s cottage. Tuppence broached the subject after some minutes’ conversation.
“I wish one could have new potatoes at Christmas time,” she remarked. “Wouldn’t they be good with turkey? Do people round here ever bury them in tins? I’ve heard that keeps them fresh.”
“Ay, that they do,” declared the old man. “Old Miss Deane, up to the Red House, she allus had three tins buried every summer, and as often as not forgot to have ’em dug up again!”
“In the bed by the house, as a rule, didn’t she?”
“No, over against the wall by the fir tree.”
Having got the information they wanted, they soon took their leave of the old man, presenting him with five shillings as a Christmas box.
“And now for Monica,” said Tommy.
“Tommy! You have no sense of the dramatic. Leave it to me. I’ve got a beautiful plan. Do you think you could manage to beg, borrow, or steal a spade?”
Somehow or other, a spade was duly produced, and that night, late, two figures might have been seen stealing into the grounds of the Red House. The place indicated by the gardener was easily found, and Tommy set to work. Presently his spade rang on metal, and a few seconds later he had unearthed a big biscuit tin. It was sealed round with adhesive plaster and firmly fastened down, but Tuppence, by the aid of Tommy’s knife, soon managed to open it. Then she gave a groan. The tin was full of potatoes. She poured them out so that the tin was completely empty, but there were no other contents.
“Go on digging, Tommy.”
It was some time before a second tin rewarded their search As before Tuppence unsealed it.
“Well?” demanded Tommy anxiously.
“Potatoes again!”
“Damn!” said Tommy and set to once more
“The third time is lucky,” said Tuppence consolingly.
“I believe the whole thing’s a mare’s nest,” said Tommy gloomily, but he continued to dig.
At last a third tin was brought to light.
“Potatoes aga-” began Tuppence, then stopped. “Oh! Tommy, we’ve got it. It’s only potatoes on top. Look!”
She held up a big old fashioned velvet bag.
“Cut along home,” cried Tommy. “It’s icy cold. Take the bag with you. I must just shovel back the earth. And may a thousand curses light upon your head, Tuppence, if you open that bag before I come!”
“I’ll play fair. Ouch! I’m frozen.” She beat a speedy retreat.
On arrival at the Inn she had not long to wait. Tommy was hard upon her heels, perspiring freely after his digging and the final brisk run.